NIGHTS OF THE ROUND TABLE

by Margery Lawrence

  ‘For a moment the doll paused, as the music changed, and I, watching her intently, saw—wonderful though it seems—that her wooden breast was heaving quickly after the energy of the dance—horribly, amazingly human detail!—and amazing human brain that had designed the delicate mechanism that produced it! However much I disliked Vlasto—and I was sure now that I definitely did dislike him—I had to admit his genius. But now the two figures faced each other in the final moment of a most remarkable turn, and I settled myself to watch.

  ‘Above, Vlasto and his Doll stared into each other’s eyes—the hard cold human stare into the empty blue orbs of the Doll—then they danced! Round and round in a wild prancing circle, the Doll’s arm crooked rigidly round her partner’s neck, Vlasto’s little hunched form overshadowed by the great hulking creature of his making, his skinny arm round her thick waist; round and round they went, while the music waxed faster and faster, till with a final burst the Doll, with a sudden galvanic movement, jerked her partner off his feet, and with arms extended and square feet planted firmly on the floor, swung him out at arm’s length in a frenzied whirl! I gasped and clutched Barrington’s arm. It was really startling to watch, as the music rushed on to its climax, that horrible Thing on the stage: immobile, with its set mechanical smile, rotating on its gilt feet, arms drawn out taut with the pull of its whirling burden—Karl Vlasto, tiny human plummet in the hands of his Frankenstein! What if something went wrong with the mechanism, some fine spring broke, gave way, some tiny nut worked loose . . .? Even as my agitated brain raced over a thousand horrible possibilities, the music slowed down, the Doll’s arms, crooking inwards, deposited her Maker upright beside her, and hand in hand the two bowed to the cheering audience as the curtain fell. Frantic cheers furled it up again, and Karl Vlasto, bowing like his own automaton, smiled and bowed and smiled again . . . and we found ourselves, after a few minutes’ heated elbowing, out in the cold night air, hot, thirsty, excited and intrigued beyond measure.

  ‘“Beer!” said Barrington firmly, guiding my steps down the cobbled street towards a lighted Biergarten that gleamed at the corner. “I’ve a thirst you could photograph! Then we’ll talk—I admit we’ve seen something that beats me! Tell you why presently.”

  ‘The Biergarten was cool and pleasant after the hot theatre, and most of the painted iron tables on the crunching gravel were occupied. We chose one under a big chestnut tree, and ordered drink and something to eat. The fat little Fraulein brought two glorious jugs of foaming amber beer, and over our plates of wienerschnitzel, schneibohnen and savoury Blatwurst we feverishly discussed the evening. Barrington interrupted my first rhapsody of admiration as to Vlasto’s mechanical genius with a statement that silenced me to utter blankness.

  ‘“Mechanical genius? That’s just what I wanted to tell you in the theatre, Hellier! That fellow’s a genius all right, but not a mechanical one!”

  ‘“Well—but we saw all those works inside the Thing?” I objected, rather bewildered. Barrington shook his head impatiently.

  ‘“That’s nothing—he twitched it away just as he thought I was looking into it a little too closely, but I saw enough to know that that’s all bluff, Hellier! It’s just a bird’s nest of meaningless cogs and wires and wheels—an attempt, I grant you, but it’s not working, nor workable. It’s just an experimental tangle of mechanisms—but any capable mechanician could have told you those springs and things led nowhere at all. No! Whatever works the thing, it’s not that muddle of wires and tubes . . . that’s what is so curious! I admit I’m thoroughly intrigued—how the deuce does the thing work? There were no wires from the flies either, nor traps in the stage, as far as I could see when we were there . . . it’s devilish clever!”

  ‘I was silent, struck dumb. As Barrington and I stared at each other, there was a faint stir among the groups of drinking men, and two people came towards our comer, where there was a vacant table. Vlasto himself! And a little faded woman in shabby black, thin and grey as a withered leaf, though not, as I observed on her sitting down, actually old—forty-two or -three at most I judged her. Vlasto, with a flourish, ordered beer and plentiful food, but for himself only, I noticed. He ate with great mouthfuls, in a grim, brooding silence, broken by an occasional gruff remark barked rather than spoken to the silent woman opposite. She sat, for her part, in sombre speechlessness, watching him eat, her small tired face expressionless, or so I thought—till a man at the next table lighted a long black cigar, and in the red gleam of light I caught a full glimpse of her down-dropped eyes, and sat up, alert, for in the shadowed dark face that watched the hunched man feeding, I read hatred unspeakable, smouldering, suppressed, but burning sullenly, if it dared not blaze!

  ‘I nudged Barrington to listen, as, his meal over, his tongue loosened by the good golden ale of the Fatherland, Vlasto suddenly began to talk in his gross guttural German. He seemed at first to merely grumble, argue, expostulate with her, and she sat still, withdrawn into her dark sullen silence, like a hooded tortoise in its shell; faintly she shrugged as he waved his arms and appealed to her . . . about what, we could not quite gather, but it seemed he was blaming her for his lateness at the theatre, or something of the sort. Her silence irritating him, he grew louder and more angry, and we caught sentences, phrases that merely bewildered us. . . . “Herr Gott, did she wish to ruin him? He could tell her, next time he should begin earlier—it had been all he could do to effect it in time, then rush to the stage, minutes late as it was . . . dummkopf that she was, did she not realize what she was doing? Each time it seemed to grow more difficult, she was so obstinate—little fool—did she realise what she was doing in thus trying to stand against him?”

  ‘This was Greek to us, but the little woman’s answer came clear to hear, though it threw no more light upon his meaning; brusquely she replied, her arms rolled in her dusty black shawl, as she slumped down in her corner chair in the shadows.

  “‘I know what I am doing, Karl! You are too strong for me—but I shall fight on. Some day, perhaps, I may be too strong for you!”

  ‘It seemed to drive him to frenzy, this defiance. Half rising, he leant across the table, shaking his fist at her and spluttering furious oaths in a strange tongue. Her quick shrinking back told a terrible story of sufferings too well-known, and Barrington and I half rose from our chairs, when he seemed to recollect himself, and with a great effort stood back, glaring at her and still muttering to himself; then with an abrupt movement he flung aside his chair and strode darkling out of the Biergarten, leaving the woman alone. The anxious proprietor, seeing him go, darted forward to demand his money, which she paid, indifferently, then, wrapping herself again in her shawl, departed silently in the warm blueness of the night.

  ‘Barrington beckoned the proprietor over as she went, a pathetically small and stooping figure under the trees.

  ‘“Who is that woman—the one who was with Vlasto the conjurer?” he demanded.

  ‘The proprietor shook his head in mild surprise that the Herr should be so badly informed.

  ‘“Who else should she be, gracious Herr, but Vlasto’s wife? They have been married many years, she goes everywhere with him. And indeed he is very good to her—they say she was only a dancing girl when he married her, and he is a genius! But what a genius! Doubtless the Herren had seen his wonderful Doll?”

  ‘The Herren had—but they felt rather sick as they paid their bill and departed to their humble lodging: I felt particularly sick, I think, for I had seen that little woman’s eyes again as she looked after the figure of Vlasto as he strode away, and shuddered at the hate in them! So would look the eyes of a devil who hated with a bitter murderous venom—hated and hated, biding the time to satisfy that hatred to the full! . . .’

  Hellier paused—so long a pause that I protested.

  ‘That’s surely not the end? I really couldn’t stand it to end that way!’

  Hellier laughed.

  ‘Oh no—though it was pure coincidence that let me witness the en
d of this particular story. So many of the best yarns in life stop short because one is never lucky enough to be able to see them through! Well—later, at least six years later it was—I was travelling through Italy, and stopped a weekend at Milan. It was, of course, before the War, so Germans and German things were not taboo, yet it was with a sudden start of surprise that I came face to face with a huge hoarding outside the great Arcade in the shadow of the Cathedral. A horribly gaudy poster of a little man, hunched, black-haired, smiling, standing beside a great Doll, holding it by the hand, and underneath written “Karl Vlasto!” With the sudden weir-d conviction that here and now I was to find the true inwardness of the strange inexplicable adventure of Rugenhöf, I dashed to the music-hall mentioned—the “Lola”, a large and well-known but rather common type of music-hall—and was lucky enough to get a box, the last left in the theatre, as it was the last night. I had a little conversation with the box-office clerk, who was enthusiastic about Vlasto’s genius, and assured me the takings of the hall had risen twenty per cent since his engagement. I posed as an acquaintance of his, and asked after his wife. The clerk looked blank and shrugged.

  ‘“I believe Madame Vlasto is with him, but she does not come to the theatre with him, and I know nothing of his private life. He is wealthy, of course; they say his Doll has brought him an amazing amount of money. . . . Nobody can tell how it works, and the turn is different almost every night.”

  ‘This was interesting news to me—different every night!

  ‘“Oh, yes,” the clerk warmed to interest in his theme. “That is what baulks all the learned professors! You see, obviously no mechanical thing can have more than a certain number of ‘records’ to draw on, yet one has only to hear a new song played in the streets, and in two days the Doll will be singing it! It is just as if she were human and learnt new things to keep her ‘turn’ level with the times—yet how can Vlasto arrange that within the limits of machinery? They think he must sit up each night altering the machinery, inserting new stuff to enable her to make new songs, do fresh dances . . . yet it took him five years to make her, he says, so how can that be? I admit it is uncanny—I have a theory . . .”

  ‘The good clerk was well away on a garrulous dissertation, so I hastily retreated, with a bundle of strange new thoughts to add to my strange memories of Vlasto and his Doll, and a full revival of all my old “queer” feeling that there was something oddly unpleasant about the whole thing. Needless to say, I was at the theatre betimes, and took my seat in the box with that horrid yet intensely certain consciousness that something was going to happen . . . so strongly was I awaiting and expecting this that I literally did not notice the first turns, nor the serried rows of intent faces fixed on the stage. That scene in the shabby, dirty little theatre at Rugenhöf was vividly before my eyes, and that other final scene, the furious, threatening man across the table, and the redly venomous light that flamed in the brooding eyes of the little shabby woman who cowered away from him—the body that shrank despite the soul that defied! What had she not been through, to have reached that pitch of murderous hate—for murderous it was in truth, like a naked sword shining between those narrow down-dropped lids; if ever I saw cold desire to kill in human eyes, it was there, veiled yet unmistakable . . . and that was six years ago! What had she been through since, with that valiant soul that strove, and the quivering, shrinking flesh that shrieked and surrendered? Vlasto would take it out of her: in the silence and safety of the night he would vent his anger on her for daring to try and resist him . . . vent it in what strange and deviously ghastly ways? The man was capable of anything!

  ‘As I thought this, the curtain went up, and the man himself stood before me. He had grown fatter, almost gross, and his wild black hair had thinned, but he had obviously prospered. Fraulein Minna had brought him much money, as the booking clerk had said. Gone was the shabbiness, the seedy linen and down-at-heel shoes. Vlasto’s hair was brushed and oiled until it shone, and his well-manicured hands sparkled with diamond rings as he settled the white tie above his spotless shirt front. There was a throne affair behind him hidden by a purple velvet curtain, and a rich carpet spread the stage before it. I scarcely heard his words—the same old patter, largely, and his strange compelling light eyes roved the audience in the same old way as he spoke; yet there was something different. I had it! He was nervous—or, at least, less supremely sure of himself than he used to be. His hands, held well under control, were none the less restless, and from where I sat in my box, close over him, I could see them twist each other, catch his coat, a button, or wind themselves round his opulent, pearl-threaded watch chain. Did he drink? It looked rather like it—yet I did not think so. Rather, he looked to me like a man worn out, nervy, holding his own only with grim determination and brutally strong will. Now I saw his forehead was heavily lined, his grey eyes pouched and purple-lidded while deep grooves lay each side of the thin, cruel mouth. . . . Yes, yes, Vlasto was, for some reason, at a desperately high tension of nervous strain. As I watched him, absorbed, he stepped back with a wave of his hand.

  ‘“My friends, let me present her to you—the Only Living Doll in the World! Fraulein Minna!”

  ‘With a sharp screep up went the curtain from the throne, and I found myself looking once more into the face of the Doll. Like Vlasto himself, she was changed, and gorgeous beyond words, in pale blue satin-brocade, lace-flounced and ruffled, with white kid gloves on her wooden arms and ropes of pearls round her neck, while sparkling diamond buttons starred the pointed front of her tight bodice of brocade. The yellow wig was gone in favour of a carefully-curled white one, and the square face with the round expressionless glass eyes was fresh-painted in gay pinks and whites, the set smile brighter than ever on its scarlet lips.

  ‘I remembered the absurd gilt boots, but the wooden feet stuck out before her were coquettish now in buckled shoes with pale silk stockings. . . . Indeed, indeed, Vlasto’s Doll had worked for him to some purpose!

  ‘As in a dream I watched him wave her forward—heard the deep compelling voice:

  ‘“Minna! Say good evening to them all!”

  ‘I saw the wooden lips part, and the Doll try to speak, but for a perceptible few minutes no sound came. I saw Vlasto start, and a wrinkle cross his forehead—then with a sort of jerk the Doll spoke. But what had happened to her voice? It was small and thin and tinny, halting, quite different from the hard, steely timbre of the voice of Minna on that first uncanny night! Neither, when at last she spoke, slowly, hesitatingly, yet quite distinctly, did she address the audience as her Maker bade her.

  ‘“Good evening, Karl!” she said.

  ‘The audience roared with delight, thinking it all part of the play, but I, watching eagerly, saw Vlasto turn and survey her sharply, with attention, and under his paint he seemed to turn a curious greenish pallor. Then he spoke again, more sharply, peremptorily, as if to assert his authority at all costs.

  ‘“Well, Minna, are you going to sing to us tonight?”

  ‘The orchestra held their bows ready to start the prelude, but the Doll’s answer came, and dropping their hands, they looked bewilderingly at each other. The voice came, stronger this time, more decided:

  ‘“No—I will not sing. But I will dance!”

  ‘Now Vlasto’s steely composure was definitely shaken; obviously the Doll’s answer was somehow not at all as he intended! There she stood in her gorgeous billowing brocade, tall and square and clumsy, facing her Maker, her arms at her sides. . . . How often had Vlasto faced his own creation like this, yet tonight there was something obviously, seriously wrong. Backing against the proscenium arch, Vlasto laughed—a valiant laugh—to cover his consternation: how dire this consternation was only I could see, the starting points of perspiration on his forehead, the dry tongue that licked his lips before speech!

  ‘“Ha, ha, she is whimsical tonight, my pretty Minna! Eh, my friends? She is playing with us, like all these pretty women. Well, come, my little one, my beautiful Minna, dance
for us, since you will not sing! What will you dance? Your minuet that you have just learnt, the tango of Seville, or your new mazurka from Vienna?”

  ‘Slowly, decidedly, the Doll shook her head. To me, or to my excited fancy, there seemed something sinister, horrible, in the way in which her blank glass eyes rested unwinkingly on Vlasto; something direfully like the gloating eyes of a snake that watched, unblinking, its helpless prey! Those eyes still on Vlasto, as he crouched against the curtain, she spoke, loudly and harshly, her voice suddenly regaining its old strength.

  ‘“The Whirlwind Waltz!”

  ‘I think it was only I, just above him, who caught Vlasto’s sharp-drawn breath, saw the grey veil of horror drop swiftly, like a shadow, over his face, glistening now with cold sweat. I was shivering now, too, and my heart hammered in my throat. My instinct told me unerringly that behind all this stalked Nemesis, baleful, inevitable, hands outstretched to catch this shrinking man . . . fate doubtless well deserved, yet none the less ghastly because of that! A Nemesis too strong for fighting, moving smoothly and ruthlessly to its conclusion . . . and somehow, somewhere behind it moved, I knew, a little shabby woman with smouldering eyes of hate! Beneath me the Doll moved swiftly forward. The orchestra, taking its cue for what was usually the last item of the turn, but, they concluded, was to be taken first for once, broke into the well-remembered music of the Whirlwind Waltz.

  ‘Craning over, my pulses throbbing like drums with excitement and horror, I watched Vlasto, his eyes staring, ablaze with terror, back feebly against the arch as the Doll came on—back feverishly, but uselessly! She was too close—it was too late—and he was transfixed by terror and could not move: his legs shook under him as he stared fascinated into the relentless blue glass eyes above that dreadful painted smile—and she had him! Towering above him in her shining brocade, her ruffling lace and pearls, her jointed fingers like steel about his body, she dragged the half-fainting man to the centre of the stage, and the ghastly dance began. I looked a moment, then shuddered and turned away—it was too awful! Round and round jigged the dreadful pair, Vlasto’s head fallen forward against her lace-frilled bosom, his arm mechanically gripping her waist—I think now the poor devil was half-dead from fright, and hope so, brute beast as he must have been! Her staring, smiling face above him grinned at the audience . . . yet, to my feverish fancy it seemed now that there was something more than mere doll-like inanity in that grin as they twisted and capered and whirled, Vlasto’s feet now and then leaving the ground as the Doll swung him round, to the roaring delight of the audience!